


Indulgence

by TwiceBorn



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Qrowin Week 2018, Romance, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwiceBorn/pseuds/TwiceBorn
Summary: For agents Qrow Branwen and Winter Schnee of OZ, it's only when they're out on a mission--alone and drowning in danger--that they get to indulge. Qrowin Week 2018.





	Indulgence

****For intelligence agents, dating on the job is a violation of professionalism, horror stories told to rookies to scare them out of doing something so stupid. Doubly so if it’s a target: or worse, a coworker.

For Qrow and Winter, it’s an indulgence. A little game they play.

“Red’s really not your color, Win.” Winter’s hands pause midway to fastening a golden pendant around her neck. She turns her head halfway and throws a look over her shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

She’s standing in front of a full-body mirror, AC blasting out into their Kuchinashi hotel room. For the two agents of OZ, the world’s best intelligence agency no one’s ever heard of, tonight’s assignment is a classy one, the kind with champagne glasses and morsels of five-star food on little toothpicks.

A red strapless gown caresses Winter’s body, the skirt cut open at the front and granting the world a tantalizing glimpse of her long, smooth legs, while her snow-white hair lies free of her trademark bun and cascades around her pale shoulders. She can sense her erstwhile partner sinking into the plush armchair behind her, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. She guesses he hasn’t put on his tie yet.

“Whites and pearls really bring out your eyes. Red? Not so much.”

Winter silently agrees but she finishes clasping the necklace anyway. “Commander Ironwood said ‘make it loud’. The target has a thing for ‘confident and energetic’ people according to the dossier, and besides; I wanted to try something different for tonight.”

“So that’s why they got me in this getup? C’mon, Win, I feel like I’m _that guy_ at the casino. You know, the jackass who shoot craps to pick up supermodels?” She barks out a laugh and replies by tossing Qrow his jacket. “Fuck,” Qrow continues, “Do we really gotta ambush this guy at a cocktail party? Swear to god, if some asshole in a tux asks me if I want any whore-durves...”

“Don’t be such a baby,” chides Winter as she finishes with the gold chain and turns around. Sure enough, Qrow’s silk tie sits in a sad heap on the bed, tossed aside after he decided it made him look like a ponce. “And they’re called ‘hors d'oeuvres’—if you blow our cover because you call them ‘whore-durves’ in front of the target, I’m making you write the report to Goodwitch.”

She hears him whine ‘aw fuck you’ and she chuckles.

Some finishing touches are in order; lipstick red as blood, painted thickly onto her lips, and a tiny earpiece that fits into her ear canal, flesh-colored and nigh-invisible.

“Gear check,” she declares, and taps her head behind her ear to test the device. Qrow does the same.

 _“Test, test, test.”_ His voice comes in loud and clear. A check of her own confirms the same for Qrow. Satisfied, Winter takes up a purse and motions towards the door.

“Ready?” she asks. Qrow nods. He opts to go without a tie, and she figures his slightly-unbuttoned black shirt and slacks ensemble complements hers nicely.

“One last thing,” he rumbles as he gets up, and he walks over to her and slides a hand around her waist. It’s time for the most important part—getting in the right mindset for the mission. She closes her eyes and steps forward.

Their lips meet. A mere peck at first, tasting a tiny morsel of each other before they dive in, throwing all pretense of professionalism into the wind in a kiss that lasts thirty seconds.

They break apart, panting.

Winter’s eyes stare into Qrow’s as she slowly, almost mournfully, pulls a handkerchief out of her purse. With a hand clad in a long black silk glove she wipes the lipstick smeared on his lips.

“Break a leg,” she whispers as she puts the handkerchief away and offers him an arm. Her partner takes it with care approaching reverence as he pulls the door open.

They step out.

The moment their feet hit the hallway carpet, they are Qrow and Winter no longer.

 

————————

 

Some say all good acting comes from the heart—you have to _feel_ what you’re doing to really act the part.

“I swear, Branwen, you are the most _insufferable_ man I have ever had the misfortune to work with!”

“Better than anything you’ll ever get, Ice Queen.”

Their coworkers at OZ headquarters stand back and watch the spectacle unfold. Some snigger, some sigh and shake their heads, some break out the proverbial (or literal) popcorn and enjoy the show. Qrow and Winter’s spats are an office fixture, like the water cooler and the xerox that constantly jams.

“Hey,” cackles Agent Adel as she elbows her partner, “think they fuck in the office bathroom? Bet ya a hundred lien they totally do.” Agent Scarlatina looks aghast as she slaps Coco on the arm, even as she imagines the Ice Queen and the Scarecrow doing the nasty on a toilet. It’s a surprisingly easy image to paint.

And it’s surprisingly on-point, though no one knows it.

It’s an ironclad rule at OZ—no romance among coworkers, on pain of termination. And since it’s Goodwitch who’s behind the policy, it’s probably not the pink-slip kind. Or so the office rumor goes.

Still, all good acting comes from the heart, and it’s true that the drab, stuffy confines of the office brings the worst out of the two of them.

Winter sneers. “I’m bringing this to Commander Ironwood, Branwen. You’re not weaseling your way out of this one.”

He grins right back. “Yeah? How ‘bout you go fuck yourself, Schnee? Not like anyone else will.” Winter scoffs and turns away. Everyone gives the two a wide berth as she storms off with several folders clutched to her chest, and Qrow swaggers back to his cubicle to either sleep or watch porn on his work computer.

She’s particular, he’s sloppy. She’s punctual, he barely knows the difference between AM and PM. She yells at him to keep his damn feet off the desk, he gets mad whenever she confiscates his booze.

They hate the headquarters for a lot of reasons. It’s why they take up field missions so often.

Out there, they can pretend to be whatever they want.

 

————————

 

Just as Qrow feared, the party’s the ritzy kind, the kind where neatly groomed men and women network and posture under a big crystal chandelier while they pretend to be interesting. He’s mollified, though, when he learns they’re serving pigs-in-blankets.

“What?” he says through a mouthful of tiny hot dog sausages wrapped in little buns. “You want some?” Winter’s too busy wondering why an upscale place like this serves food called ‘pigs-in-blankets’ to reply. She idles a swaddled swine in her distracted fingers before she takes a nibble. It’s surprisingly not bad.

Finger-food aside, the moment they step into the foyer all eyes are drawn to them. Qrow’s swagger lacks his usual hunched-over posture and it gives him an air of authority, like he‘s the reason for the party and he knows it, and Winter’s blood-red gown makes everyone else room look like they're wearing wearing grandma sweaters. Attention and undercover agents usually mix like water and oil fires, but tonight, they need to be conspicuous.

And besides, it’s a date.

Winter plays her part to the hilt, pressing her bosom up against Qrow’s arm as she purrs, leaning her head against Qrow’s shoulder. “Oh darling, just _look_ at the decor, it’s all so _wonderful_ .” She gasps. “My god, is that a 19th century Cloud Monet? The brush strokes, the colors...mmm, it’s _rapturous_ , darling. Don’t you agree?”

It’s not a complete lie—Winter really does adore Monet, her favorite among her beloved Impressionist painters. She has a copy of his “Faunus With A Parasol” hanging on the wall of her room.

Qrow takes a second to respond. He gulps as he feels Winter’s warmth through his clothing and tries not to get distracted. “‘Course, babe. How ‘bout I talk to the manager, see if I can buy it off him?”

“Oh would you, darling?” Silk gloves cup his face as she brings him down for a kiss. It’s brief but bold, fierce, as she mashes into him, a declaration to the rest of the world. A handful of people glance their way and immediately avert their eyes; others can’t help but stare.

“You’re too good to me,” she whispers.

Qrow grins, praying he’s not looking like some dumb, awkward teenager.

He probably is.

“Aren’t I, babe? But how ‘bout we grab some more food first. I’m hungry as hell.” His head flickers towards a nearby table where a millionaire’s feast sits.

They know the target’s going to be tardy—the dossier says he likes being ‘fashionably late’—so they kill time by enjoying the closest thing to a date they’ll ever get.

They talk. They laugh. They make fun of the partygoers. They sneak kisses and steal into dark corners when they want more. They eat food and drink champagne Qrow’s never touched off the job and Winter's rarely had since she fled from home. They have the best time of their lives in months.

Then the clock strikes midnight, and it’s time for business.

 

————————

 

On another mission, in another time, Qrow and Winter fuck in a run-down motel in Vacuo.

It can’t be called ‘making love’ because there’s no gentleness to it, it’s too rushed. Just a pair of sweating, heaving bodies, trying to search each other, touch each other, know each other after far too much time spent apart. It’s sex borne out of worry and desperation, the carnal pleasure between two people who can’t know if there’ll be a next time beyond the next sunrise.

They fuck for hours to the quickening rhythm of their creaking bed until they forget the rest of the world. Then at last they let out a final cry of orgasmic pleasure and Winter collapses atop of Qrow, panting hard and sweating.

Qrow’s in no better shape. She rolls off him and lies there, staring at the ceiling and catching her breath.

The room’s quiet. They hear nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing and the buzzing of cheap fluorescent lights.

Winter’s the first to break the silence.

“Ready for round two?” she asks after a few minutes, rolling her head to the side to look at him. Even here, drenched in sweat and sucking in air, he’s rugged, sharp, just the way she likes it. But gentle, too, as he takes her hand in his.

He gives her a wry grin. “Geez, already? Let a guy catch his breath.” Winter grunts as she hauls herself onto his chest and rests her head there, blue eyes meeting red. She smirks as she teases him, her fingertips dancing across his skin. He replies by running his fingers through her hair, sending shivers down her spine.

“Getting old, Scarecrow? Can’t keep up anymore?” It gets a chuckle out of Qrow.

“Hey, I’m still quick on my feet. Still faster than Rubes.”

“Thank god you aren’t when you’re with me.” It’s an awful joke and they both know it. He groans to let her know that.

They grow quiet again.

“I hope Weiss is doing well.”

He glances down at her. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Four months ago.” Winter’s expression grows strained. “Qrow...she wants to go to Beacon.”

There’s a hiss as Qrow sucks air through his teeth. Beacon University’s a fine school on paper, one of the best in the world. It’s away from the Schnee mansion, too, but that’s not the only reason Weiss wants to go there.

Beacon’s where Director Ozpin keeps his lair, his home away from OZ, and far too many dreamers get snapped up right off its campus to join the agency. Though few people outside the agency know about OZ, Weiss is one of them—one of the perks of being a Schnee. And Winter knows Weiss well enough to know why her little sister’s got her sights on the Valian school.

“I don’t want this life for her, Qrow,” whispers Winter. She draws Qrow around herself, clutching her body against his. “The military, maybe, or Atlas Intelligence. But this...”

Qrow smiles. It looks lopsided, but Winter knows he’s trying. “Hey, Snowdrop, listen...she’ll be fine. She’s smart. She’s tough. And she’s got Rubes watching out for her.”

Winter goes quiet for a while, but she finally relaxes by a fraction.

“Aren’t you worried about Ruby following in your footsteps, too?”

“She’ll be fine. She can handle herself.” But Winter can feel his insincerity.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

He tenses, then lets go with a sigh. “What do you want me to say, Win? That her mother died for OZ and I pray to god every day she doesn’t do the same thing? That OZ fucked up her dad’s life and her sister’s too, thanks to Rae?”

“I’m sorry,” mutters Winter after a while. “That was...insensitive of me.”

Qrow lets out another sigh as he puts his arms around her. “It’s fine. Like I said: they’re tough. We can’t stop ‘em, so all we can do is cheer ‘em on.”

They lie there, silent, finding comfort in each other’s embrace.

“...they’re dating, aren’t they?”

“Probably.”

“As Weiss’s older sister, I’m obligated to tell you: if your niece hurts her, I have to kill her.”

“Right back at ya, Ice Queen.”

They give each other a look, then laugh.

“ _Now_ I’m ready for round two,” says Qrow with a grin. Winter’s reply is a deep kiss.

They go at it again for another few hours. This time, it’s gentler. Less hurried. More indulgent.

This time, they make love.

 

————————

 

Winter lures the target in with more mewling about expensive paintings. It works with depressing ease.

“My goodness! A woman who knows her art! I must say, madam, it’s quite refreshing to meet a fellow aficionado of the arts, especially one so lovely as yourself.”

He’s a fat, balding man in a tuxedo two sizes too small, and nearly a full head shorter than Winter. A curled moustache that would have been out of fashion two centuries ago sits on his face, like some plump caterpillar had crawled up under his nose and died there, and he leers at Winter with piggish, beady eyes.

“Burnish Fennelton,” he calls himself. “CEO of Fennelton Chemical, Inc.” Charged with embezzlement of millions two years ago, too, but it had stuck like water on oil. A few months ago, OZ finally discovered why: he had been bankrolling one Roman Torchwick at the time. The man had a talent for making anything disappear, whether it was people, goods, or crimes.

Torchwick is out of the game now, kept under the watchful eye of Commander Ironwood and three dozen security cameras, but his old network of toadies needed cleaning up. And so they’d come to Kuchinashi, where Burnish had his army of lawyers clog up any attempt to extradite him back to Vale to face justice. The two agents were there to convince the corrupt executive to come back home, one way or another.

A lifetime ago, Winter had met dozens of people like him at her father’s many conferences and balls, and she knew their type. No matter who they were or what they did, they all had a vice.

Thanks to excellent OZ intel, she knows his.

“ _The_ Burnish Fennelton? Chairman of the Vale Curator’s Society?” She puts on her mask like an evening jacket, oozing charm from every pore. “I’ve heard so much about you! I heard your speech at the VCS conference last summer, it was _inspiring_.”

She offers a hand for him to kiss and like a fish he takes the bait, grasping her fingers in a meaty paw and mashing his lips against it.

“Why, I had no idea my reputation precedes me! I’m afraid I can’t quite remember you from the conference—a shame, given how lovely a creature you are, miss…?”

“Edel,” says Winter. “Edel White. And this is my fiancée, Corvus Mabinogion.”

Qrow rumbles, “A pleasure, Mr. Fennelton. ‘Scuse me, babe, I think I saw a friend of mine over there…”

Winter’s lips curl into a smile. “Of course. Be back soon, hmm, darling?” She gives Qrow a quick peck on the lips and watches him stride off before turning back to Burnish.

“Now, where were we…?”

They talk pleasantries and swap stories about things that never happened. The entire time, Qrow prowls the perimeter, taking note of the dozen burly men in suits and polarized shades. He doesn’t see any conspicuous bulges on their clothes, so he deduces they’re either unarmed or—more likely—packing light heat. Handguns, probably. Machine pistols, possibly. He hopes it’s just the former. He and Winter didn’t have the space to come packing anything too heavy.

He pulls out a phone and pretends to make a call, informing Winter through their earpieces about Fennelton’s goons. A distinct pair of _taps_ is his reply—two for acknowledgment, three for refusal. Satisfied, he moves on to the second phase of the plan.

Red eyes cast about the room and settle on a brunette.

“Hey miss,” he says, gliding over to a young woman with short, dark brown hair and a white dress. “Mind helping me with my phone? Think there’s a problem with it.” He flashes her his patented ‘lady-killer’ smile when she blinks and approaches.

“What’s the problem, sir?”

“It doesn’t have your number on it.”

She stares at him for a second before bursting into laughter. Qrow sidles over, apologizing for the awful pickup line and turning on his own brand of rugged charm.

As he does so, he slides his hand past his ear to brush his hair back, tapping his own earpiece with a sleight of hand.

On cue, Winter gives Burnish a coy smile.

“It’s been _wonderful_ speaking with you, Mr. Fennelton, but this party’s a little loud, don’t you think? Could we go somewhere more...private?” Burnish sputters, at first, but quickly recovers.

“I, ah, I would be delighted, Miss White! But your, ahem, your fiancé, I wouldn’t _dare_ presume to—“

“There’s no need to worry,” Winter purrs, fluttering her eyelashes and putting a hand on his. She notes his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Corvus and I, we have an understanding.” She glances pointedly behind her shoulder where Qrow is chatting up the woman in white.

“I see!” says the executive, cheeks quivering in anticipation. “Well then, let us adjourn somewhere quieter, shall we?” He gestures at several of the suited men. “Stahl? Eisen? A little privacy, please.”

“Sir, we—“

“Tut tut! I wouldn’t want to make the young madam uncomfortable now, do I? Come, Miss White! Bring a glass of champagne or two with you, hmm?”

As Burnish totters towards the exit, Winter casts a glance behind her.

From across the hall, Qrow gives her a wink.

 

————————

 

Four years ago in Atlas, the air sings with gunfire.

“BRANWEN! Branwen, stay with me!” There’s a supersonic whip-crack as a bullet screams past her face. “Dammit!”

Qrow hates Atlas. He hates the weather. He hates the people. He hates the food. He hates how people treat other people there, especially the Faunus. And he especially hates how it’s made his already-insufferable partner even worse. Something about family, she’d said—he hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

The gaping chest wound isn’t helping either.

Winter pulls him down the alley, hauling Qrow by the arm he’s got draped over her shoulder. Behind them, less than a couple-hundred feet away, Torchwick’s men storm towards them, guns blazing and filling the air with curses. Poor marksmen, all of them—Torchwick was a miser when it came to hired help, his one weakness—but pump out enough ammo and anyone will hit something sooner or later. Such as Winter, if Qrow hadn’t shoved her out of the way and taken the hit instead.

“Ditch me, Schnee,” he manages to gurgle. “P-put me back by that dumpster and...get the intel to Ozpin.”

He almost winces at how cliche he sounds, like someone straight out of a summer blockbuster. But there’s a logic to it. The intel’s what they’re here for, and he knew what he was getting into when he signed up with Ozpin all those years ago.

“Shut up and hand me another mag,” Winter snarls. An empty magazine slides out of her handgun and clatters on concrete. Qrow paws at his belt for a fresh one, and after several tries he manages to get it.

“Not joking…” Shit, it’s getting hard to talk. He hacks up a wad of blood and something else—that’s not good. “I’m...expendable. Intel’s not—”

“You’re not FUCKING expendable!”

The mag crunches home and Winter pops off two shots behind them to keep the thugs’ heads low. In another time, Qrow might have mocked her for language, but right now he’s taken aback.

“You are NOT expendable,” she repeats through gritted teeth. “Until you’re an actual corpse I’m not leaving you to die like some animal.”

Somehow, Qrow summons up the energy to chuckle. “That military talk?”

Winter’s eyes harden even further. “No. Something I learned from family.”

For the second time in half as many minutes, Qrow’s taken off-guard. He stumbles and drags Winter down with him.

“Shit…”

“Fuck!”

“Language...Schnee.” There. He finally did it. Winter ignores him and drags him behind several dumpsters. Not the best place for a final stand, but it’s cover and she has to make do.

She props Qrow up with his back against the dumpster wall while she peeks around the corner, muttering into her ear-mounted comm device.

“Wizard, come in Wizard, this is Snow. I need extraction at my coordinates _immediately_. Blackbird is down, I repeat, Blackbird is down…”

Months later, Qrow realizes this is the moment when he starts to fall for his hated partner. Winter isn’t sure when it happened for her—it was a slower, more gradual thing on her end—but for Qrow, it’s this second, in this god-forsaken alleyway in the shittiest part of Atlas, that lights the match.

He remembers every detail about her in this slice of time. Her plainclothes outfit, stained with his blood and hers, covered in little rips and tears that look almost artfully placed. Her snowy-white hair, so pale it blends into the Atlas blizzards, now falling in tangled bunches out of its usual bun and caked in filth and red. Sky-blue eyes, harder than steel, focused in determination, never flinching or looking away as she spits round after round down the alleyway, daring for death to come take her.

It’s in that moment that, for the first time in his life, he finds her beautiful.

Absentmindedly, he reaches out to her with a trembling hand, as if to brush the stray bit of hair covering her face.

The world goes dark.

 

————————

 

As far as OZ agents go, Winter’s not the best at seduction. She’s got the looks and the charm, but going anywhere beyond flirting and tantalizing hints is out of her comfort zone. ‘Look, but don’t touch’ is as much a rule for herself as it is for everyone else.

Which is why she takes out her fake lipstick and tasers Burnish with it as soon as the opportunity arises.

She presses a finger to her ear implant. “Package secured, ready for pickup. Men’s bathroom, east wing.”

On the other end of the line, Qrow curses. _“Already? Dammit, be there in four.”_

“Make that three.”

Before she can do anything else, there’s a knock at the door. “Mr. Fennelton?” The voice is deep, booming, but deferential. “Mr. Fennelton? A client of yours wants to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”

Shit. One of his bodyguards, probably. Thinking fast, Winter lets out a long, loud moan of pleasure, crying out Burnish’s name and affirmatives as she frantically finishes trussing up his unconscious body. Her reward is blessed silence, but she knows it won’t last for long.

“Make that two,” she hisses.

_“What happened?”_

“His bodyguards are looking for him. Some client of his showed up, apparently. I bought us a little time, but—”

Qrow mutters another curse. _“Alright, be there soon as I can.”_

There. All tied up, like a hog for a roast. She drags Burnish to the closest window and begins the arduous task of trying to stuff him through it.

Another knock on the door. “Uh, Mr. Fennelton? Mr. Black is here, and he’s being very insistent…”

Winter’s blood runs cold at the name.

Intel suggested Burnish had been seen once with Marcus Black, a man credited with the murder of a dozen heads of state and two-dozen more other high-profile killings. What the hell was a cretin like Fennelton doing with the world’s top assassin? Her efforts grow frantic when she hears a new voice speak.

“Move aside, buddy. I don’t care if he’s balls deep in some girl—my boss isn’t the waiting type.”

It sounds younger than she expected. She files that tidbit for later as she gets Burnish through the window with one final, desperate shove. Qrow is beneath the window, panting, and starts cramming Fennelton into a perforated bodybag as soon as he catches him.

Winter lands on the concrete on bare feet, heels in her hands. “We need to move. Now.”

“What the hell happened?”

The bathroom door smashes open. In steps a man in a black tuxedo, his steel-grey hair in a fashionable mess, followed by one of Burnish’s meathead guards. To Winter, tuxedo-man looks like a younger version of…

“Marcus Black?” She whispers hoarsely. This one looks different—like a younger brother, or a son.

“Fuck. Win, we gotta move.” She does, but only to pull out a tiny pistol hidden under her dress. Even at this range it’s barely a peashooter, but she’s not aiming to kill and, more importantly, it’s quiet. Muted pops of gunfire sends the bodyguard stumbling and the grey-haired man diving for cover. A few more as she starts moving keeps them there, hopefully long enough to give them a good head start.

“Go, go!” cries Winter as she covers Qrow. Burnish’s bodybag flops around on Qrow’s shoulders as the two of them sprint towards the nearest parking lot.

“Which one’s the car?”

“The Silvana 980, white paint job. Lot 2.”

There—nestled between two SUVs, their getaway vehicle. They approach the rear door and shove Burnish into the car before piling into the front seats.

They’re halfway out the parking lot when they spot something in the middle of the road: a petite young woman, so short they almost mistake her for a child. Half her shoulder-length hair is pink; the rest is brown. The smile on her face is like a hungry wolf’s.

The woman gives Qrow and Winter a mocking bow, then hauls into view a machine gun bigger as she is.

 

————————

 

The one line they don’t cross is a small one. It’s circular and made of metal and fits neatly on one particular finger, but for them it might as well be a wall.

Still, though, there are times when Winter wonders how it would look like on her hand, wonders what kind of rock would sit there on her ring finger—if it has a rock at all. If it’s Qrow’s, she half expects a two lien ringpop from a convenience store, and she smiles when she realizes she'd like it.

But if he asked, would she even say yes?

She glances over to the man she’s sharing the sofa with, who’s currently busy flipping through a dossier and sipping at cheap beer.

Her answer is: no. The reason why is is the scattered memos, reports, and photos that cover the coffee table like a blanket, the product of half a day’s worth of paperwork.

This is what passes for a vacation for the two of them. What a week off from OZ duties looks like.

They love their job too much, she realizes. Work is hard and it’s nearly killed her more times she can count. It keeps her away from family and the people she loves and there’s long stretches of it where it might as well be a desk job for pencil-pushers.

Yet, it’s satisfying, and she’s good at it. And it lets her fight for a cause she believes in.

She knows it’s the same for Qrow.

With a life like that—where home is for paperwork and the office is hell, where a trip halfway across the world to eliminate some terrorist is what passes as a date—marriage isn’t possible. There’s no stability. One or both of them might wind up dead in an alley somewhere or locked away forever in some prison. And god knows what would happen if they end up with a kid.

No. What they have now is simple in its own way, and simple is good.

Still though. When things are quiet and she’s alone, she daydreams and wonders what it would be like to have a normal life with a normal job and to share all that with Qrow. She doesn’t get very far before she wanders into territory that looks absurd for both of them—really, the whole ‘house in the suburbs with two-and-a-half-children’ schtick just isn’t her. Or his.

Theirs is a crazy life. Full of ups, and downs, and backwards, and sideways. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone else and yet she wouldn’t have it any other way.

On a whim, she leans over and kisses Qrow on the cheek. He raises an eyebrow even as a smile plays on his lips.

“Hmm? What’s the occasion, Snowdrop?”

She sighs and leans her head against his shoulder, nestling into him.

“No particular reason.”

 

————————

 

“Goddammit, does she ever run out of ammo?!”

“Stop complaining and just keep them off us!”

“I’m _trying_ , woman!”

They’re tearing down Kuchinashi streets as fast as their perforated car lets them. It’s a miracle the little devil hasn’t blown their tires away by now--her accuracy with a weapon that kicks like an angry mule is uncanny.

Qrow leans out the window to fire more shots at their pursuers, but marksmanship with a handgun is never easy even at the best of times. Here, with the wind stinging his eyes and Winter swerving the car to avoid fire, hitting anything is impossible.

Damn that girl. One of Torchwick’s closest associates, now that he remembered. She’d been presumed dead after the last raid that finally brought in Torchwick. Intel had dropped the ball yet again.

He yelps and jerks back as he feels the _crack_ of a bullet shriek past his face and nearly falls onto Winter.

“How long til’ the docks?!”

“There’s still a mile or two left! Now get out there and keep firing!”

Qrow wishes he could strangle the OZ jackass who put their extraction point across the goddamn city. A stream of curses leaves his lips as he scrambles back into the seat. He’s nearly hurled out the window when the car jerks violently.

“She hit the wheel!” screams Winter. “We’re spinning out!”

Caught halfway out the car, Qrow fights the centripetal motion threatening to sling him out onto the street. He grips the car door so hard his fingers hurt yet he can feel himself slipping. Machine gun bullets stream past him even as his world goes topsy-turvy.

By the time the car comes to a violent halt, he’s so dizzy he barely knows they’ve crashed. He hangs there, vomiting, until strong hands yank him back into the car then out the other end.

“On your feet, Branwen.” Winter pulls the rear door open and hauls Burnish out. A muted yelp erupts from within the bodybag.

Shaking off his vertigo, Qrow hands Winter his pistol and grabs their package. They find the nearest building they can find—some empty office complex—and hurry into it, scrambling to get to the rooftop. Behind him, he can hear Winter firing and demanding emergency pickup at their location.

From the way she curses, he figures the news isn’t good.

“We’re gonna have to hole up in here and wait ‘til evac,” he pants. “Evac _is_ coming, right?”

“ETA twenty minutes.”

Qrow snarls. “Fuck! We don’t have five!” Winter agrees by silence.

In the far distance, they begin to hear the keening wail of police sirens. Law enforcement and secret agents belonging to organizations that shouldn’t exist don’t mix well, even on the best of days. Throw a kidnapping charge on top of that and it’s a recipe for scandal and twenty years hard time. Ozpin can save some of his agents from the law, but not all of them.

Exhausted, they at last arrive at the top floor. They toss Burnish onto the ground and collapse onto some empty office chairs, fighting for breath.

Silence reigns for several heartbeats, broken only by the sirens and their panting.

Qrow lets out a moan. “Shit’s fucked, isn’t it?” Winter just raises an eyebrow and gives him a look before breaking out in a chuckle.

They set about dragging office desks to make passable cover before ice-cream girl gets there. Winter speaks over the chorus of tables and chairs scraping across the floor.

“If I don’t make it out of here, Qrow, you’re the one writing Weiss the letter.”

“Not funny, Win.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Me neither. We’re both getting out of this alive.”

She lets out a scoff. “The odds of that are getting distressingly low.” Qrow grunts with effort as he shoves a cubicle wall into place.

“Yeah, well, that’s what we thought about Atlas too.”

Winter grows quiet for a moment.

“Come here.”

Confused, Qrow finishes with the last office chair before he walks over to Winter. Her sudden embrace nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs.

“You die here, Qrow,” she says, her voice muffled by his clothing, “and I’m following you to hell so I can kill you myself.”

He can’t help but laugh, wrapping his sore arms around her as he buries his face into her hair.

“Same for you, Snowdrop.”

He wishes he could stay like that forever. Let the moment stretch on into eternity, the rest of the world be damned. He wishes he could taste her warmth and indulge, one last time.

But the world comes knocking with a burst of machine gun fire. They scramble for cover. Neopolitan stalks towards their makeshift bunker, having seemingly appeared out of thin air, and her face alights with insane glee as she levels her ridiculous gun at the OZ agents.

They barely have any time to pop out of cover and fire back. A cloud of munitions keeps them pinned, the machine gun sweeping back and forth and hosing the air around them with shrieking death. It makes a mockery out of their ramshackle fortress, heavy bullets chewing straight through desks, cubicles, and chairs, choking the air with shards of plastic and torn nylon fiber.

The only thing that saves them is Neo herself. Perhaps she remembers them from the Torchwick raid and was out for some sadistic revenge; or perhaps she just likes toying with her prey. Either way, she destroys their cover piece by piece than instead of finishing them.

Gift horses and mouths, thinks Qrow to himself, but their luck’s running out. There’s barely enough office supplies left now to trip someone, much less keep them hidden from Neo’s wrath.

At last, the bullet-storm stops. Through his ringing ears Qrow can barely hear Burnish’s meatheads finally catch up to them, and through the cloud of smoke and ruined barricade he can see them taking positions.

He glances to his left. Winter’s prone, breathing hard and clutching at a bleeding arm, the red blood fading into her crimson dress. Qrow wants nothing more than to drop everything and check her over. The armed suits don’t give him that luxury.

Behind them, miraculously unharmed, Burnish squirms and squeals in his bodybag.

The younger Black shows himself, sauntering forward with his hands in his pockets. His footsteps sound oddly heavy and there’s a strange metallic clicking with his every step. Neo gives the tuxedo’d man a flourishing bow as she steps back and begins reloading her massive weapon.

“Well, well. Quite a chase you led us on, Mr. Mabinogion. Or should I say, Qrow Branwen?”

The blood freezes in Qrow’s veins; he knows his name. That’s never a good sign.

“And Ms. Schnee. Should have stayed home instead of getting mixed up in all this. Or did you get bored of spending daddy’s money?”

“Get to the point, Black,” calls out Winter from behind the pathetic remains of their barricade. Her voice is tight as she fights to keep the pain out of it. “Kill us or let us go, but stop talking like the little turd you are.” Qrow can’t help but snort as Black’s expression darkens.

“Fine. Give us Fennelton and we’ll let you go.”

Winter gives him a lidded stare. “You’re as stupid as your hair looks if you think we believe you.”

“And you, Mr. Branwen?” says Black through gritted teeth. “Think you can get your ‘fiance’ to listen to reason?”

Qrow’s response is a single finger.

“You heard the lady,” he says, grinning.

He can sense Black rolling his eyes from across the office. “And that’s what I get for trying to play nice. Neo, boys? Waste ‘em—but try not to hit our little friend.”

Neo’s grin threatens to split her cheeks apart as she steps forward. There’s a sharp _crack_ as she yanks back the weapon’s bolt, sliding a fresh round into the chamber. The rest of the suits stalk forward and flank the OZ agents.

Nowhere to run. Outnumbered and outgunned. This is it, then, figures Qrow. This is where it ends.

Qrow glances over to Winter. She has her back to the remnants of the barricade. Her expression’s drawn tight: maybe with pain or acceptance of her impending doom, he doesn’t know. She has her peashooter drawn and ready.

He’s reminded of Atlas all over again. She looks just as beautiful back then in that alleyway. Unconsciously, he reaches out a hand towards hers.

He starts when Winter notices and reaches back.

“Hey, Qrow?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

“...yeah. Me too, Snowdrop.”

_“Agents, get down and close your eyes.”_

“Holy _shi_ —”

 

————————

 

An hour later, they’re still alive somehow.

They’re sitting in a Bullhead: exhausted, drained, but breathing. Their salvation had come in the form of their world exploding.

It’s only after everything settled down that Qrow and Winter pieced together what happened. Their rescuers—a pair of other OZ agents in the area—had arrived much faster than anyone had expected, including OZ headquarters.

And, evidently, Neo and Black.

The cavalry had rappeled down the side of the building after hopping from rooftop to rooftop, blown the windows open with breaching charges, and flashbanged the room before filling the air with lead.

Neo had jumped out another window while Black had disappeared down a flight of stairs. Neither of them left a trace. But they’d revealed their hand and got next to nothing in return, so OZ considered it a win.

Their rescuers’ arrival surprised Qrow and Winter, but not as much as who they were.

“UNCLE QROW! Omigosh are you ok?! We got here as fast as we could but—”

“Ruby! Calm down and get the first aid kit. Winter’s bleeding and I need to take a look at it.”

Qrow and Winter didn’t think their niece and younger sister, respectively, were due for field ops until the coming fall, and had no idea they were even in Mistral, much less Kuchinashi. They later learn that they were in the city for basic intel training and Ozpin had given them permission to engage under the circumstances.

They wonder if the Director had put them there on purpose or if this was all just some incredibly lucky coincidence.  Qrow stops thinking about it when he realizes: again, gift horses and mouths.

It takes the four of them only a few minutes to grab Burnish and extract before the local police arrive. The rest is out of their hands, and as far as they’re concerned, they’re home free. Mistral police might be on the lookout for Edel White and Corvus Mabinogion, but that’s nothing a bribe here, a string pulled there, and a few months of lying low can’t solve.

Winter glances over to the seat next to her, where Qrow sits staring off into space with his eyes glazed with fatigue. He notices her looking and looks back, shooting her a weary grin.

They’re too tired to talk, but they don’t need to. Another day, another mission, another firefight they barely got through by the skin of their teeth. Now comes the boring part of getting checked over by the docs and sifting through reams of paperwork before Goodwitch chews them out for whatever the fuck they did or didn’t do and kicks them out the door with another mission.

She closes her eyes, letting the droning of the Bullhead take her into blissful sleep. Whatever comes, she’ll deal with it after she gets some goddamn shuteye. Unbeknownst to her, Qrow does the same.

They lean against each other while the rest of the world goes on around them. It threatens to give their relationship away but for now, they don’t care. For now, all they need, all they want is a little warmth from the person sitting next to them.

In the coming months, life goes on for them like usual. A life of offices, papers, dossiers, briefings and debriefings. Of going undercover in far-flung places across the world where they can pretend to be the lovers they are, before committing illegal activities in the name of the greater good.

But all that comes later.

For now, they indulge just a little.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Yessss! Weiss, look! I knew it! They’re totally dating!”
> 
> “Ruby, it’s rude to stare.”
> 
> “But still!”
> 
> “Give them some space. They’re exhausted. Let’s go check on the package and leave them alone, hmm?”
> 
> “Fiiiine.”
> 
> …
> 
> “...when do you think they’ll get married? How many kids you think they’ll have? Ooh, you think they’ll get a dog?”
> 
> “Ruby…”


End file.
